


You Can't Blame Gravity

by Skittery



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - World War II, Character(s) of Color, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, but all in 3rd person, drunk enjolras is ridiculous, just the timeframe there won't be battles or anything, there may eventually be some smut if i can do it but none so far
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-23
Updated: 2015-05-23
Packaged: 2018-03-31 19:11:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3989455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skittery/pseuds/Skittery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As a matter of course, Enjolras didn't drink, or rarely, as he generally felt better-suited having his wits entirely about him.  But the bar was bright and warm and more inviting than he generally supposed bars should be, its wine list expansive enough even for Combeferre to immediately dive into a glass with excitement; and the encounter with the fortune teller was still lingering like a sour taste in the back of his mouth, and as he was constantly being reminded, they were on holiday, and interestingly colored drinks kept being placed directly in front of him; and suddenly it was hours later and Enjolras was, without a doubt, completely and utterly drunk</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can't Blame Gravity

**Author's Note:**

> this is the first thing i've written for this fandom and these characters who i love so please be kind

It was suddenly seeming less like a game, less the lark he had let himself be talked into because it was, after all, a holiday, and this sort of frivolity was what people got up to on holidays, and his friends had a way of becoming severely convincing, preying on his latent desire to experience all of the things his classmates spoke of, but which he could never seek out on his own.  Outside, in the waning brightness of the afternoon, it had seemed like an easy thing to give into, harmless, really; a fortune teller was nothing but foolishness and swindling, but at least it would allow him to say that, yes, one time, in the late fall of 1939, even he had given into the required inanity of a holiday from classes.  But inside, with the choking, thick-scented smoke of the incense; and the brightly hued (if faded) shawls, some bedecked with an atonal selection of tiny bells, blocking all of the windows, the room lit dimly by a few candles and nothing else; and the old and gnarled woman sitting opposite him with his palm clutched in the almost translucent skin of her hands, her eyes clouded but still alert, staring largely at him, or possibly past him entirely, into the depths of the tiny room; inside, it suddenly felt real, to an extent that Enjolras had not prepared himself for.

"You," she said abruptly, after what had maybe been whole minutes, or perhaps mere seconds, of silence, and Enjolras startled.  Her voice was low and gravelly, but with an almost sing-song tone in stark contrast to this quality; next to him, seated slightly farther back from the little table, he could feel Courfeyrac tense at the sudden words.

"You," she repeated, speaking quickly but deliberately, "will endure great fallings."  Her accent was thick, and had Enjolras not been unexpectedly immersed in the ambience hanging thickly over them, he might have suspected that it was put-on.  "These will be the undoing of you."

She straightened up suddenly then, and curled Enjolras's fingers over his palm, releasing him from her barely present grasp and patting his hand as though she had just given him exceptionally good and hopeful news.

Enjolras frowned, "What, exactly, does that mean?"

The old woman, however, just shook her head, smiling in what was surely meant to be a pleasant and reassuring way as she stood quickly up from the table, sweeping their money into wide pockets in her skirt and ushering them out of the small, dimly lit enclosure.  The tiny bells on the scarves tinkled cacophonously as they passed through, none of them daring to speak until they were back in the dying sunlight of the approaching evening, the old woman out of sight behind the thick layers of cloth.

The din of the boardwalk seemed to come up suddenly around them, as though it had been struggling to break through the fortune teller's quiet haze and had just roughly and inelegantly succeeded.  Music played from small tinny speakers while other students on their holidays swarmed around the different vendors and games and entertainment.  Farther down the pier, noise spilled out from a series of bars getting started early, laughter pealing through the air, the low and steady crash of waves sitting underneath it all.  

Enjolras blinked rapidly, adjusting again to the world, and looked questioningly at his friends, who had, after all, been the ones to suggest that they come down here and entertain the ridiculous notion of a fortune teller.  

Of the three of them, Courfeyrac broke the silence first.  "Well, that was certainly something."

He threw his arms loosely around Enjolras and Combeferre's shoulders, jostling them further down the pier.  Enjolras rubbed his palm almost subconsciously, as if to rub away the previous situation.

"Yes," Enjolras replied, feeling more like himself by the minute, "a supreme waste of money."

Combeferre smiled sympathetically and Enjolras felt a surge of gratefulness that at least he could be counted upon to be sensible, even if their third could not always. Courfeyrac scowled good-naturedly and steered them towards one of the more jubilant-sounding bars.

"We are on holiday," Courfeyrac said pointedly, squeezing their shoulders in turn, "both of you need to lighten up.  We are amongst our people, the students of the world."  He flung his hands out for emphasis, and then turned slightly towards Enjolras, "We are not yet old men, sitting in our lonely towers counting money, but young and free to spend what we have amongst our brothers, to join them in a drink, or two, or many!"

His voice had grown somewhat louder, and garnered an inebriated cheer from some of those lingering on the outskirts of the bar.  Enjolras shook his head, trying not to smile at his friend's antics as he was led into the bar.

As a matter of course, Enjolras didn't drink, or rarely, as he generally felt better-suited having his wits entirely about him.  But the bar was bright and warm and more inviting than he generally supposed bars should be, its wine list expansive enough even for Combeferre to immediately dive into a glass with excitement; and the encounter with the fortune teller was still lingering like a sour taste in the back of his mouth, and as he was constantly being reminded, _they were on holiday_ , and interestingly colored drinks kept being placed directly in front of him; and suddenly it was hours later and Enjolras was, without a doubt, completely and utterly drunk. 

He had no idea what time it was, although it was very dark outside and the crowd inside seemed to have become more jovial, which implied a very late hour.  He knew they had spent a great deal of time talking amiably about politics (a topic which the three of them approached with similar viewpoints, although none with such conviction and vigor as Enjolras) and at some point Courfeyrac had moved his chair around Enjolras, closer to Combeferre's, forming a tight circle around the bar counter instead of remaining at it with the three of them in a line; the conversation had now progressed somehow to music, Combeferre admitting himself an avid but mildly embarrassed fan of classical and operatic music while Courfeyrac grandly extolled the virtues of the newer forms, jazz especially.  Enjolras, who had few opinions either way, listened to them absently, his eyes wandering hazily as the room blurred into colors and sounds under the thick smell of beer and cigarettes.  He lingered on one table in the corner, far from the bar where he sat, whose inhabitants seemed extraordinarily comfortable in these surroundings, their table littered with a great number of empty glasses and their voices rising above the din; one of them, who could only be seen from Enjolras's perch by the back of his head, covered in dark, disheveled hair, caught his attention especially, messily half-dropping an almost full glass onto the much-abused wood of the table, its golden liquid spitting droplets into the air while he flung out unintelligible words even through his laughter, jostling the man sitting next to him, their words and laughter mingling in the air. 

The more sensible version of Enjolras lingering in the back of his mind realized that he was staring, and he reluctantly turned away, back to his own companions; the laughter from the other table echoed in his ears, however, and he felt a strange stirring in the pit of his stomach that he was more than happy to attribute to the strange selection of alcohols he had imbibed, even as his fuzzy mind pushed away his usual inclination to ignore such sensations and urged him to turn his head back, rudeness be damned.  Enjolras shook his head, attempting to clear these thoughts, and blinked languidly, tuning his ears into the conversation happening closer to him. 

“ _How_ can you dismiss out of hand the only accessible music, the true music of all of the people of this country?”  Courfeyrac was saying, waving his hands around as though he truly found this to be the highest of offenses.

Combeferre was shaking his head, but looking at Courfeyrac with a mixture of amusement and fondness, his mouth curved into an indulgent smile and one of his fingers absently tracing the base of his wine glass as it sat on the bar counter.  Enjolras couldn’t quite figure out what the expression meant, but he was certain it was one he hadn’t noticed before on his friend’s face; maybe, he reflected, it had to do with the drinking, since he usually excused himself from these sort of frivolous endeavors. 

“Just because people actually study it and it isn’t contemporary doesn’t erase the strong musical _history_ of this country,” he replied, taking a sip of his wine, and leaning in closer towards Courfeyrac.  

Courfeyrac grinned, throwing his hands onto Combeferre’s shoulders as his tactic took a faux-linguistic turn, “History?! _Look_ at your classical music it _literally has the word class in it_!”

Combeferre burst out laughing, another thing Enjolras wasn’t used to, and half-shook Courfeyrac off of him, although it didn’t look like he was trying especially hard.  Enjolras suddenly felt like he very much needed to get up and get some air or something, and he stumbled off his barstool entirely ungracefully.  He was surprised when his feet hit the floor and it seemed to sway beneath him, the distance between the floor and his eyes apparently much greater than usual, the air still hazy with his intoxication.  He suppressed what he greatly hoped was not as much of a giggle as he suspected, and waved his hand aimlessly at his two friends.

“I’m...off to get some...air…” he said, trying to project his voice as much as possible, and watching as both Courfeyrac and Combeferre lifted a respective eyebrow at him in what he assumed was amusement or concern, one of Courfeyrac’s hands still resting comfortably on Combeferre’s shoulder.  Combeferre made a motion to stand, implicitly asking if he needed any help, but Enjolras waved him off, not wanting to break up what he increasingly suspected was something he was not supposed to be a part of and did not want to observe, certain that once he was back to himself he would regret any knowledge of this distraction from their more serious endeavors, especially on the part of Combeferre.  

Enjolras started forward, a hand trailing across his now vacant barstool as if for support as he moved, reflecting that this is probably what it felt like to be out on the water; the sensation of floating with heavy movement was unnerving, if not entirely unpleasant.  He glanced at the door they’d come in, surrounded by people standing with glasses in their hands: men with their shirts unbuttoned to the third button from the collar, some with sleeves or jackets, some without; women wearing dresses that fell to their knees only, brightly colored and blending together kaleidoscopically as they leaned in and out of the conversations, skirts swirling around each other. Enjolras fingered the tightly clasped top buttons of his own shirt, wondering vaguely how it might feel to be able to throw off the bindings of proper society so carelessly.  Recognizing the unlikelihood of getting out through that door without pushing through the crowds, their closeness and the smoke in the air creating a physical barrier, Enjolras's eyes swept the room haltingly, landing on a back door, past the scattered tables, past the singular table against the wall that he kept feeling himself drawn to, inexplicably.  Steeling himself, he started towards the back door, moving slowly but with surety as he wove his way haphazardly between tables and chairs and people, almost not seeing them as he moved towards his target; he may have been quite a bit more drunk than he'd planned, but he was still himself, and once he had made a decision, not a thing in existence could stop him from holding to it.

Enjolras wasn't sure, however, if he was truly heading towards the door or the table; his feet swept him carelessly towards the back door even as his head kept turning sideways, watching them, the dark-haired one especially, his face still obscured to Enjolras, his hands flying in and out of visibility, enthusiastically slinging about his cup.  Enjolras was fascinated, even without seeing his face, an emotion that he rarely felt with other people - history was fascinating, politics was fascinating, society was fascinating, people were not - but, perhaps due to the alcohol flowing so unusually through him, he felt fascination overtake him, and it was partially this nearly uninhibited desire to see as well as his inability to judge distance correctly in his inebriated state that caused him to fully miss how close he had come to that table, and how, as he neared it, an occupant of the table next to it, waxing on about his need to relieve himself, swung his chair roughly into the zigzagging path Enjolras was taking, causing Enjolras's feet to tangle together with the legs of the chair and send him catapulting forward. 

For a moment, Enjolras felt he was watching the world go by in slow motion as his feet came out from under him and he fell sideways through the thick, smoky air; he watched people laugh at him or look at him in alarm, he braced himself for impact, and realized, belatedly, that he was going to miss the floor entirely.  Sober Enjolras would have been thoroughly embarrassed by this realization, but as it was, Enjolras felt only a sense of strange fulfillment as he tumbled directly into the lap of the dark-haired stranger, feeling strong arms reach up to catch him against his back, strangely sensitive, as he looked up into a face that was at once the least attractive and most beautiful he had ever seen.

****

Grantaire was knee-deep in a bottle of whiskey, or rather, he was fully immersed in the golden liquid mentally, while physically touched only by stray droplets that flung themselves about his person as he swung his glass around the near-empty bottle.  It was not unusual for him to be in a similar state most nights, he was more at home in the sooty corner of a bar than anywhere else; what was unusual was the presence of so many friends around him, similarly deep in their cups, this being a holiday from the university where Grantaire maintained enough of a presence to avoid getting kicked out but never enough to actually graduate.  He was in a good humor, surrounded by friendly faces and drunk in a satisfied rather than melancholy way, enjoying the smoky bar and the solidness of the table beneath his hands and the thin music from some radio filtering in through clouded windows, the smell of surf and fire underneath it.  He was, in fact, in the midst of remarking on his unusually good state of mind when the most gorgeous person he had ever seen in his life came tumbling directly into his lap.

Grantaire's hands shot up, bracing against the stranger's fall, his reflexes sharp despite his heavily drunken state.  The other looked up at him through hazy eyes and Grantaire felt his breath catch in his throat, his hands suddenly burning where they were touching the stranger's back, his intoxication seeming to both clear and become more intense and paralyzing at the same time.  Grantaire saw the world in colors, usually dull ones, but looking at this person lying suddenly and gracefully across his lap, his eyes seemed to bloom into bright hues.  The stranger was like a world of color unto himself: his eyes the deepest blue of seas and skies, mingling shades and depths; his hair a brilliant blonde, the golden amber of the drink that Grantaire had been admiring in the hazy light of the bar paled in comparison to the golden glow of his hair, the lamps themselves paled; he was pale, paler than Grantaire would usually be interested in, color-wise, generally finding pale skin to lack depth, but this skin was an everlasting monument to beauty, the pale perfection of a statue, his face colored by a deep red blush, less marring than accenting.  He wore his shirt buttoned all the way up to his throat, and his sleeves buttoned at the wrist, the image of modesty, his clothing falling perfectly across his lithe body.  Grantaire could feel the other's back muscles tighten where Grantaire had caught him, and for a moment Grantaire's imagination started to get the better of him, focusing in on him and his colors and his form while the rest of the bar faded into a blur of pigments all mixed together, sounds without transients, light and dark and near and far all meaningless as Grantaire stared down, hardly daring to breathe.  For Enjolras, this may have been the meeting of two strangers, for Grantaire it was not; he knew him, although they'd never spoken, knew him by sight, a student at the university, wealthy, beautiful, confident - Grantaire would recognize him anywhere.

In the moment of this recognition, as Grantaire's drunken mind took the sudden opportunity of closeness to such a person as Enjolras to begin mapping out how he would paint him, how to take his wondrous colors and throw them into a dull imitation on paper; in this moment, the other, possessed of some sudden speed and sure-footedness, sprung up from Grantaire as though he had been burned, turning to look back at Grantaire, his expression a mix of curiosity and fear and something else...Grantaire suspected it might be disgust.  He was suddenly very aware of his own appearance: his disheveled hair and paint-flecked skin, his own shirt wrinkled and unbuttoned to his collarbone, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows messily, visible indications everywhere of his own imperfect body; not to mention the fact that Grantaire’s mind did not shine like the sun, but rather burned ever consuming like a black hole.  He lowered his eyes quickly, rubbing his palms uncomfortably on his slacks, certain even as he did so that he wouldn't be able to keep his eyes averted for long, physically pained by the thought of missing what might be his only opportunity to gaze upon the beauty before him without great stretches of sidewalk between them.

Enjolras glanced around the table, unsteady on his feet again but looking more confident, his gaze seeming to strike each of the table's occupants in accusation, as though he weren't in a similar state of drunkenness and had not just fallen on one of them.

"What do you think you're doing?" he said, and Grantaire looked up in spite of himself, uncertain as to how to react, fighting with amusement and annoyance and shock that he was actually being addressed.

"Sorry...what?" Grantaire sputtered, following his words with a large gulp of his whiskey.  When he met Enjolras's eyes, he felt as though sparks were shooting through him, fires lit in his veins, although that may have been partially due to the whiskey as well, the bar blurring out of focus again, anxiety and longing bubbling up inside of him even as Enjolras kept his affronted expression.  

Enjolras frowned, bending slightly forward and putting his hand on the table as though for emphasis, although Grantaire suspected it was more for balance.  "I asked what you think you are doing?"

Enjolras's change in positioning had brought his face closer to Grantaire's, and Grantaire could feel his cheeks starting to burn, glad that his complexion kept him from noticeably blushing, feeling the space between them like a tangible thing, like they were swimming in electricity, his head buzzing from the sensation as well as the whiskey he drained hurriedly from his cup.  He couldn't imagine that Enjolras felt none of this, the change in the air and the colors and intensity of the bar fading around them, but if he did, he gave no sign, and Grantaire felt the hope that had sprung up with this chance-meeting start to pale.  Still, Enjolras had not yet looked away from him; although he wore same unreadable expression across his face, his eyes seemed to transmit at least some slight amount of interest as they bore down on Grantaire's.

Grantaire's reverie of confusion was broken by a barking laugh from across the table, and Grantaire remembered with a start that he wasn't alone, that the rest of the bar existed and he was, in fact, surrounded by a table of people who did not look at him with barely concealed disgust or disbelief, at least not when it was unwarranted.  He broke his eyes from Enjolras and lifted the whiskey bottle to pour more into his cup, grinning as he did so at Joly, who was still laughing.

"You fell onto _him_!" Joly exclaimed, taking a sip from the stirring straw in his drink, a barely reached alternative to bringing his own drinking glass to bars.

Enjolras looked up at him, apparently confused as to his presence even though he was standing less than three feet away from Joly's seat.  Enjolras blinked rapidly, as though to clear his head (Grantaire was fairly certain, as a veteran drunk, that this wouldn't be of much help, but Enjolras seemed so unaccustomed to and lost in his drunkenness that he didn't want to say anything that might discourage him).

"Yes," Enjolras replied at last, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world, "but I would have recovered on my own, without your grabbing me so...familiarly.”

Grantaire felt his mouth fall open in astonishment and Joly laughed again, turning to whisper something in the ear of Bossuet, who was seated at the table between them.  Bossuet laughed in turn and Grantaire wondered lightly what secret commentary on this odd situation they were sharing, although he suspected he might not want to know.  He peered into Enjolras’s face, trying to find a hint of jest or amusement, finding none; after years of noticing Enjolras from afar, even knowing through hearsay the type of personality he had, Grantaire had not imagined their first conversation going this way at all - granted, he usually imagined very little conversation between them before things progressed to a different form of entertainment, but still, the conversations he _had_ imagined had been civil, and enamoured, and not quite so...insane.

“I _caught_ _you_ ,” Grantaire sputtered, interrupting himself by taking another deep drink from his glass, slightly reassured by the warmth it provoked in his throat and stomach though not entirely convinced he wasn’t stuck in the middle of some terrible dream.  He couldn’t decide if he was incredulous or amused or embarrassed or angry or all of the above, and his tone betrayed the confusion.  “You fell on me because you’re drunk and clearly out of your element and I caught you so you wouldn’t hit your head on the table or something and hurt yourself or worse.”  

He took a deep breath and glanced over at Joly and Bossuet, hoping he wasn’t somehow actually making a fool of himself the way Enjolras was suggesting; Bossuet nodded at him in encouragement, Joly shrugging as he sipped his drink.  It was enough to bolster Grantaire, who wasn’t entirely sure how he had let this situation get so completely out of his grasp, but it had, and he wasn’t going to apologize for doing nothing, even if it ruined his chances, because what chance really had he had before they’d even spoken, certainly not a very good one.

“See, this is what’s wrong with you rich student-types, you come out to these places that must be slumming it for you, and single out a table like ours to come harass, even though we’ve done nothing except possibly stand in the way of you drunkenly hurting yourself and sit here looking like our shirts have been slightly less firmly pressed than yours, all the while probably talking grandiosely about equality for everyone and the power of the people and other nonsense that young politically-minded oratory students waste everyone’s time with,” he paused to take a breath, mentally chastising himself for an utterly terrible run-on sentence that was only going to make everything worse even if every word of it was true (albeit not in the most choice wording).  “And furthermore,”

Grantaire wasn’t entirely certain what his ‘furthermore’ was going to be, and was saved from revealing it by the appearance at their table of two more people, who Grantaire was actually acquainted with, although not well, having interacted with both of them during his extended term of studies.    

“What’s all the excitement over here?” the one Grantaire knew better, Courfeyrac, asked, throwing an arm around Enjolras lightly.  Grantaire had taken a few classes with Courfeyrac over the years - they’d met when Courfeyrac had taken a drawing class in his first year, apparently in an attempt to pick up the nude models; and then again the following term when Grantaire had taken a history course with similar objectives - he’d kept up a cordial friendship with Courfeyrac, as the latter was so social they could not help running into each other fairly often, and Grantaire had always refused Courfeyrac’s invitations to join what Grantaire thought of as his “young revolutionaries’ social club,” although now, seeing Courfeyrac’s easy mannerisms with Enjolras, Grantaire wasn’t certain that refusing hadn’t been a mistake.  Courfeyrac was light and warm and enticing, and Grantaire found it somewhat hard to believe that he would be so close to someone as fiery and cold as Enjolras.  The other newcomer, Combeferre, Grantaire knew mostly because of his close association with Courfeyrac.

Enjolras shrugged Courfeyrac off, frowning at him, “I was going to get some air and I…”

“Tripped,” Joly provided helpfully, and Courfeyrac grinned at him, which Grantaire was taking as a very good sign at this point in the overall interaction.

“Yes,” Enjolras hesitated for a split second before continuing, “and I happened to fall towards this table but I was just saying how perfectly capable I was of picking myself up without being physically accosted by strangers.”

Courfeyrac and Combeferre both seemed to be stifling laughter, which Grantaire was taking as another very good sign in terms of how this conversation was going to resolve itself, and he felt assured enough to abandon his anger for a moment in favor of mentally drawing Enjolras again while the other’s attention was focused on his friends.

Courfeyrac looked around the table, apparently for a chair, before plopping himself down unceremoniously on Joly’s lap, who didn’t seem to mind it as much as Grantaire would have expected; maybe they knew each other better than he was aware of.

“But we are all friends here!”  Courfeyrac exclaimed upon taking his “seat.”  To both Bossuet’s and Combeferre’s apparent relief, Combeferre slid into a space between the chairs, close enough to the table to participate while still standing.  

Enjolras blanched, “What?”

Grantaire felt his hopes sinking lower; despite the many, many times he had recognized Enjolras (and a few when he had slunk close enough to overhear his conversations), Enjolras had never given him a second thought, didn’t know they’d been at school together for as long as Enjolras had been attending the university, didn’t recognize him now.  Despite his weird reaction, Grantaire had been fostering a secret idea that maybe Enjolras had “tripped” intentionally, but clearly, that had not been the case.  He covered his face again in his glass.

****

Enjolras wasn’t sure when he had lost control of the situation, although he suspected hazily that it had been when he had left the bar counter to walk in the direction of this table in the first place, but he was certain it was out of his grasp now.  He stared at Courfeyrac sitting familiarly in the lap of - he realized he didn’t even know any of these people’s names.  Enjolras had never been talented at remembering names, even at his most sober; dates, and words, and facts, and theory, he was good at calling to mind at a moment’s notice, but Courfeyrac had always kept track of the names of the people who came and went through their lives for him.

Enjolras wasn’t sure when Courfeyrac and Combeferre had arrived, but he was glad they had, because the dark-haired, fascinating man he’d practically thrown himself onto had been getting increasingly agitated; and Enjolras, even though deep down he knew it was his fault the conversation had gotten off to such a terrible start, was going to be unable to resist following the verbal attack (accurate as it may have been) with an argument of his own.  Enjolras wasn’t sure what had even possessed him to say the things he had, although he wasn’t sure he was wrong, either; he had fallen, and looked, and felt something melt around him and begin attacking his chest from the inside, and maybe it was that, or the intense warmth of the stranger’s hands on his back, or the way he looked at Enjolras like someone would look at art, but more discerning, almost knowingly, but Enjolras knew he had to remove himself from the situation before he did something in full public view that he would certainly regret once he was sober again.  After that, it was some inane self-protectiveness that caused him to accuse the stranger as he had, unsure why he was saying these words, but fully committed to them once they’d left his lips.  He knew he was speaking with conviction, a feeling that was comfortingly normal, although he kept sneaking glances at the stranger, watching his reactions, the easy way he interacted with his own friends, the way he drank and the expressions he couldn’t prevent from showing across his face; the way he watched Enjolras, too.

“What?”  Enjolras said.  

Courfeyrac shrugged, and Combeferre answered, gesturing to each of the people at the table in turn, “Not strangers.  Joly is a medical student, Bossuet’s in law, and Grantaire…”

Enjolras felt his face redden slightly again at the mention of the stranger’s name - he was familiar with the name, having heard Courfeyrac mention it a few times, and somehow it fit this messily inviting person sitting before him.  Enjolras wanted to pencil it down in a notebook, so that he wouldn’t forget it.  

Grantaire smiled ruefully when he paused and offered his half-empty cup to Courfeyrac and Combeferre, the former of whom took it gleefully, taking up the introduction.  “Grantaire is a student of the world, although he also dabbles in actual classes occasionally, and may he never graduate, for then I’ll lose my introduction to the world of nude university models.”

Grantaire’s smile widened at that, and Enjolras was certain that he liked Grantaire’s face like this, although he certainly wasn’t the one to provoke it.  He settled his face, and stood up straight, trying to seem as though he wasn’t leaning on the table for support.  “I’m…”

“Enjolras, who needs no introduction at this point,” muttered Grantaire, loud enough to be heard only by Enjolras and Bossuet, who burst out laughing violently enough to shake the contents of his glass, which he’d been raising to his mouth, all over himself instead.

Enjolras ignored him, although he was a little bit shocked that his name was known, if not just as much filled with pride; he continued, “Enjolras, and I apologize for my...behavior just now.”

“He doesn’t drink often,” Courfeyrac said in a stage whisper.

Grantaire gave a somewhat mirthless laugh, and Enjolras noticed Combeferre squeeze Courfeyrac’s shoulder lightly in what might have been a warning before saying, “You should see him in his element, much more graceful.”

For the second time that night, Enjolras thought that he ought to appreciate more the friend he had in Combeferre, and he shot him a grateful look.  Here was something he could speak about; here was an opportunity, maybe, to redeem himself in these people’s eyes.  He was always more confident, more important, when he was talking about his politics, his aspirations, the group they led to discuss what was and what might be and how to take part, to change, to overcome.

“Yes,” Enjolras said, hoping his voice was steady, “you should all come to our meetings, especially if you’re students!”

“No thanks,” Grantaire replied offhandedly, almost bitterly, not looking at Enjolras this time, “I don’t think any of us are interested in your young revolutionaries’ social club.” 

Enjolras felt his stomach drop unexpectedly, and he felt his words die in his mouth, uncertain how to proceed from that point.  If this was what it felt like to be drunk, all swirling colors and tipping floors and enticing men who could ruin you with words, he wasn’t sure why anyone would want to be in this state regularly.  He felt his fingers grip the table more tightly, and he knew he was losing what little composure he had regained after falling.

“I might be interested,” the bald man next to Grantaire (Enjolras had already forgotten his name temporarily) spoke up, and Enjolras felt a tiny twinge of relief that fought with the disappointment rising as he watched Grantaire scowl into the glass he’d retrieved from Courfeyrac.

“Well,” Enjolras said, trying to keep his voice commanding, “we’d be glad to have you.”  He paused, “Any of you.”

Enjolras glanced up at his friends and both seemed to take in the panic behind his eyes, which was an unfamiliar sight; Courfeyrac stood up, shaking Joly’s hand good-naturedly before pushing Combeferre and Enjolras back towards the bar and the door that led outside.  Enjolras felt relieved as they moved away from the table, although his stomach was still tied in knots, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had happened here, in this bar, that he wasn’t going to be able to escape, or change, something that he was being swept along with instead of controlling.  He glanced back at the table as they approached the door, and was both relieved and disappointed to see that the three occupants were back to talking amongst themselves and drinking, as if he’d never interrupted them. 

The air outside had turned slightly chilly, and Enjolras felt it wash over him like a cleansing water, the haze of the bar fading slightly, feeling more like himself, although incredibly tired.  

“So,” Courfeyrac said, teasing, “having a good holiday so far?”

Enjolras thought about the terrible fortune teller, and the drinks (which he realized he’d have to pay someone back for) and the mysterious dark-haired man he’d watched, and the thickness of the bar air, and the casual way people dressed, and falling, and strong arms bare of cloth, and the way his eyes bore into Enjolras, and the confidence in Grantaire’s voice, and how he’d been the last thing Enjolras wanted to look at when he left, and how he hated him and somehow maybe quite didn’t; and Enjolras surprised all of them by replying “yes.”

****

Grantaire hid his face in his hands as soon as they were gone; that had spectacularly not gone the way he had imagined it, and he had to go and say Enjolras’s name for him, because of course, everyone loves the stalker.  At least Courfeyrac had managed to diffuse his anger somewhat, replacing it with self-doubt and humiliation, which he was more able to handle with the alcohol still remaining on the table.   

“Well,” Bossuet said, clapping Grantaire on the back, “that went well.”  Grantaire groaned.

“Are you feeling okay?” Joly asked, sounding concerned, “or is it just that the fellow you’re in love with kind of fell on top of you and then leapt up and argued with you before storming out?”

Grantaire groaned louder; why did he even bother having friends, everything was awful and nobody was sympathetic and even the radio in the bar was playing some classical nationalistic drivel now.  

“It isn’t all that bad,” Bossuet said, and Grantaire could practically hear the look he was shooting Joly. “At least you talked to him, and he knows your name - we just have to figure out the next plan - and have another drink.”  

He nudged Grantaire’s glass against his arm and Grantaire reluctantly lifted his eyes from his hands, taking up the glass again and trying not to think about how he was going to die alone and sad.  He sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the situation while the air around them rang with voices and clinks of glasses and the tinny radio music; or at least trying to contemplate, and not think about the way Enjolras had looked walking over to him, or lying on his lap, or standing above him, his eyes fierce if glazed and his voice strong if full of nonsense and his hands squeezing the table and...Grantaire swallowed.

“So...what’s the plan?” Joly asked.

Grantaire frowned and drained the freshly poured glass of whiskey.  “I guess we’re going to a meeting.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading - first time in this fandom that i'm letting my work see the light of day so i hope everyone likes it!
> 
> it's going to have more chapters and go through about 5 years and basically include all of my favorite tropes, so yeah let me know what you think of this one? and more to come soon...


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